O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
   Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
   And no birds sing.

 ... 

I met a lady in the meads,
   Full beautiful -- a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
   And her eyes were wild.

I see a lily on thy brow
   With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
   Fast withereth too.

 ... 

I made a garland for her head,
   And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
   And made sweet moan.

 ... 

She found me roots of relish sweet,
   And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said --
   "I love thee true."

 ... 

There she lull'd me asleep,
   There I dream'd --  ...  woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
   On the cold hillside.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
   Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried -- "La Belle Dame sans Merci
   Hath thee in thrall!"

 ... 
And I awoke and found me here,
   On the cold hillside.

And this is why I sojourn here,
   Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
   And no birds sing.